Ruler of Scoundrels (Chronicles of a Cutpurse Book 2)

by Carrie Summers

  Thumping footsteps announce when the remaining three ambushers sprint from the alley mouth, more black-clad ruffians into the fray. Myrrh shoots a frantic gaze to her bodyguard who is struggling to regain his feet under a hail of blows from two of the shadowy attackers. They attack with fists and the flash of brass knuckles. No blades.

  Myrrh doubts that’s because they lack the expertise. These people want to take her alive. Noble wishes to extract his punishment in person. Slowly.

  A kick knocks out Myrrh’s knee from behind. She nearly falls. Yelling through gritted teeth, she forces her paralyzed right arm back to life. Her dagger flashes in the yellow glow from a nearby lantern as she yanks it free. Quick-stepping back, she tries to get her flanks clear.

  There are just too many. She wasn’t vigilant enough. With a few long strides and a sliding attack, one of the assailants knocks Myrrh’s feet out from under her. She hits hard. The dagger goes flying across the street and clatters against a wall. She raises fists to defend her face, brings her feet up to kick away attacks.

  A sickening crack echoes through the street when a nightstick whacks her bodyguard’s skull.

  He collapses in a heap.

  The attackers surround her, looming over her in a circle of silvery glimmer eyes.

  She has a moment to wonder where Noble got access to the resin before hands snatch her wrists and ankles. She flails, unwilling to give up without a struggle. Her captors grunt but hold firm, their motions sharpened by the glimmer. Myrrh never stood a chance against these odds. Why didn’t she listen more closely to the warnings?

  Abandoning the guard’s slumped body, the captors drag her out of sight and into a dark aisle between buildings.

  “Get her bound,” the woman hisses.

  Myrrh closes her eyes, trying to place the voice. But recognition doesn’t come. She was probably just a low-level skirmisher under Noble’s hierarchy. Not important enough for Myrrh’s and Glint’s people to recruit during the coup. But with glimmer singing in her veins, she’s twice the fighter Myrrh is.

  One of the captors wraps a length of stiff rope around her left wrist, cinching it painfully tight before roughly grabbing the other arm and binding them together. Noble’s people drag her upright and shove a gag through her lips. Too late, Myrrh tries to yell. It wouldn’t have done any good, not in Rat Town. But she hates that she went to this fate quietly.

  Now a blade comes out, glinting in the woman’s grip. She snarls and presses it to Myrrh’s neck.

  “We’re moving,” she says. “Don’t fight if you want to live.”

  Myrrh doesn’t acknowledge her. Instead, she turns her eyes forward, focuses on the alley mouth.

  She spots movement an instant before a hissing sound ends with a strange pop as a crossbow bolt skewers one of her captor’s windpipes. The man falls to the ground, a wet whistle escaping his throat.

  The next bolt takes the woman in the eye. She spirals silently to the alley floor.

  Another shot misses and strikes the wooden wall at the back of the alley with a thunk. Two captors scramble for the alley entrance leaving two to guard her. Myrrh bursts into action, jamming an elbow into the voice box of the man on one side of her, whirling and bringing her knee to the other’s groin. Both double over.

  She sprints down the dead-end alley. By the time she reaches the street, one of the men who ran to find the attacker is down, a crossbow bolt bristling from between his ribs. The other is running full tilt away from the scene.

  There’s no sign of her rescuer. Just shadows and fog and the grimy light from a pair of neglected streetlamps. The movement she thought she spotted was directly opposite the alley, but there’s nothing there now but splintery siding and a window with drawn curtains. She searches up and down the street, scanning alcoves and doorways. Nothing. Her bodyguard is still unconscious in the center of the street.

  Behind her, the man she kneed grunts as he starts to recover. A footfall crunches as it lands on the trash filling the alley. She can’t stand here any longer.

  Myrrh runs to her bodyguard’s side. Shoves a toe against his shoulder. He rolls, falling from a slumped-over kneeling position to an open-eyed sprawl on the cobblestones.

  Bile rises in her throat as she quickly crouches and maneuvers her bound hands to feel for a pulse.

  A weak thrumming. He might live, but Myrrh can do nothing to defend him.

  Anger floods her veins as Myrrh stands and takes off sprinting. Her hands saw back and forth across her belly, arms desperate to pump the air and speed her escape.

  Behind, another hiss cuts the air. A body thumps as it hits the street. She risks a glance back but still can’t see who saved her.

  At the next corner, she turns and runs hard for home.

  Chapter Eight

  WHEN THE SUN rises, Myrrh is still pacing. Graves gave up his attempts to persuade her to go to sleep when dawn began to pale the sky above the crooked roofs to the east. He wandered off to bed, rousing another of the syndicate’s thieves to guard the safe house door. The new sentry, Piebald, is a man in his thirties with a line of hoops in one ear and a mischievous gleam anchored in his eyes. They haven’t spoken much since he took up the watch. Right now, he’s sitting at a small table, staring at the door while he gives himself a haircut by holding locks of hair out from his scalp and severing them with his belt knife.

  Despite the hours that have passed since the ambush, Myrrh’s hands still shake when she takes them out of her pockets. It’s almost certain that Noble sent the attackers, but who rescued her? Possibly Rattle, a ploy to prove his loyalty. If so, he’ll surely tell her next time she sees him. But that doesn’t seem quite right, because if nothing else, she didn’t see a crossbow on him. His jacket was cut close enough to his body that a weapon like that would have been hard to conceal.

  Warrell, maybe? He’s protective of her, and is more likely to have her quietly followed than to confront her about safety.

  A wave of melancholy hits her when the next name comes to mind. A few weeks ago, she would’ve been sure it was Hawk that saved her. Not anymore.

  As she turns to pace the other direction, Nab comes shuffling out of his room. Myrrh does a double take as he yawns and stretches. Has he grown? It hasn’t been that long since she saw him. More likely, the events of recent weeks have caused him to carry himself differently. Or maybe she’s adjusting her expectations, learning to think of him as more than the urchin pickpocket she took into her care a few years ago.

  “I heard you’ve been robbing bakeries,” she comments.

  Nab rubs his eyes as he shrugs. “I am a thief.”

  She closes her eyes. How can she possibly convince him there’s a better way? “Rat Town isn’t safe at night. Not right now.”

  “That’s the nice thing about being an orphan,” he says. “No parents to tell you what to do.” He casts her a pointed stare.

  He’s right in that she has no real authority over him, at least not personally. She could threaten to kick him out of the safe house; everyone else here pulls their weight by working jobs to buy food and standing watch at the door. But the threat wouldn’t work, because he’d probably just move back to their old squat. Or maybe one of the other dens inhabited by Ghost members would offer him a bed.

  “But the leaders of your syndicate can tell you what to do. Ghost has an arrangement with the honest people of Rat Town. We keep the Shield Watch off their backs and distract the most persistent of the tax collectors. Plus we make sure rival syndicates don’t come in and start demanding tithes. In exchange, the shopkeeps and bakers and whorehouse madams pay us a small tribute. This arrangement does not include us stealing from them.”

  He slouches and rolls his eyes. “Then give me a real job.”

  “I need to send a message to Glint today.”

  He scoffs. “I said real.”

  Myrrh pinches her temples between her thumb and middle finger. Just as well. She was thinking of person
ally carrying the news of Cobalt’s death to Glint anyway. It would be a good chance to talk to him about etch and Rattle’s offer.

  “I’ll try to think of something, but only if your tutor gives me a good report on your reading progress.”

  Nab mutters something under his breath that sounds like a reference to the Miser’s anatomy. Without another word, he shuffles toward the kitchen. Piebald pretends to yawn to cover his amusement.

  “I’m going to try to catch a catnap,” Myrrh says. “Can you ask the sentry to wake me before noon?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” he says, slicing through another chunk of hair.

  “And please sweep up after you’re done playing barber.”

  He groans but nods.

  ***

  Myrrh steps out the door of the safe house and into midday light filtered by high clouds. Her body aches from the struggle last night, and her eyes burn from waking after such a short morning nap. But it will take more than two hours to reach Glint’s base of operations, and that’s if she can manage a quick pace. She can’t squander any more daylight.

  Of course, a quick pace seems unlikely, given the bags of wet sand that seem tied to her feet.

  The shortest route to Lower Fringe cuts across the Neck and Maire’s Quarter. By night, she could probably traverse the thieves’ paths across the Quarter without incident. It’s too risky in broad daylight, though, even with the chaos gripping the city. Instead, she heads for Second Bridge, intent on skimming just the southern border of the Neck on the way to the eastern bank of the Ost.

  Even though noon has come and gone, Rat Town still slumbers. The results of last night’s revelry spill from some of the taverns: pools of vomit, broken glass bottles, and the occasional drunk sleeping around the side of a building. Closer to Second Bridge, a few of the district’s honest tradespeople and shopkeepers have unlatched their doors and hung out their placards. Many have hired armed guards to stand beside their doors. Myrrh doesn’t like the look of that. It means they don’t trust Ghost syndicate’s protection.

  She keeps moving though, intent on reaching Glint’s and making the return journey before nightfall. After last night, she doesn’t intend to be on Rat Town streets after dark. Not until Noble is dealt with.

  She reaches the foot of Second Bridge and starts across. The bridges are named for the order in which a barge passes beneath them as it travels upriver. But of the five spans that arch over the River Ost, binding the city and its commerce in strange ways, Second Bridge is the oldest. It’s also her favorite because of the massive limestone towers that rise from islands in the river, supporting heavy timbers that are painted with tar each year to stave off rot. Carvings decorate the towers from top to bottom, faces and figures and ancient symbols all muted with age. Moss clings beneath cornices and overhangs like beards, giving the whole bridge the appearance of having been transported from a distant jungle.

  The bridge is only wide enough for one direction of wagon travel at a time, especially because the city allows a few peddlers to set up stalls in the shadows of the limestone pillars. Because the bridge connects Rat Town, home to lowlifes and humble tradesmen, to the Neck where shipping magnates and foreign traders have their offices, it’s one of the few places where sellers who cater to both populations can work. A woman with sly eyes winks at Myrrh as she cries out the benefits of her love potions and perfumes. Farther along, a surgeon numbs a patient by offering swallows of whiskey so strong the fumes make Myrrh’s eyes water. As she hurries past, the surgeon lays a razor against the patient’s foot and slices out a deep wart.

  The center of the bridge is the true boundary between districts, but the entire span is treated as neutral territory. A sort of no man’s land where all are welcome. Myrrh’s glad for the separation from the Neck. It’s one less thing to worry about. Irons, the syndicate running most crime operations in the other district, had a peaceable relationship with Slivers. Myrrh doesn’t see any reason for them to change their behavior now that Ghost runs Rat Town. But she hasn’t had a chance to sit down and parley with the leaders yet either.

  Once onto the cleaner streets of the Neck, she pulls her cloak’s hood forward. After her recent pickpocketing spree, it seems like a good idea. She stops at a cart selling sticky buns and buys breakfast, no doubt spending coppers she stole from merchants patronizing the district’s night market.

  The bun is divine, filling her palate with aching sweetness and rich butter layered with hints of cinnamon and clove. She nibbles as she walks, savoring the experience. Back in Rat Town, the bakers do what they can. But fine white baking flour is beyond their means. And anyway, seems Nab would probably just steal the offerings if they managed to produce them.

  As she nears the edge of the district, an urchin girl steps from an alley. She chews a chapped lip and turns doe eyes on Myrrh as she holds out a hand to beg.

  “Please, just a copper, missus. A copper for me dinner.”

  The girl’s voice is singsong and intended to distract. When Myrrh feels her accomplice’s little hand slipping into her cloak, she steps back and snatches the boy by the wrist. The children’s eyes widen and the girl tries to run. Too slow. Myrrh grabs hold of her ratty tunic and spins her around.

  “Just hold still a minute,” she says, giving the boy’s wrist a squeeze. Quickly, before they get a chance to try to flee again, she plucks a pair of silver pieces from her coin purse.

  Awe lights the children’s faces as she presses a silver piece into each of their hands.

  “When you choose a mark,” she says, “look for someone with their purse on the outside of their jacket or cloak. And for the Queen of Nine’s sake, don’t pick a fellow thief. Do what you want with those silvers, but I suggest you buy better shoes. You’ll make more mistakes, and when you do, you want to be able to run fast.”

  She glances at their feet and the ratty sandals held on by decaying leather straps. The children give her solemn nods.

  “Now scat,” she says, “before you draw attention to me.”

  They scurry off like mice, and Myrrh resumes walking. Soon enough, she reaches the waterfront where the Neck butts up against the Crafter’s District. Here, hawkers call out prices on inexpensive jewelry, and acrobats tumble between the parade of wagons on the wide street, flipping dangerously close to the mule teams in hopes of impressing onlookers and earning more coins for their performances. The bottoms of Myrrh’s feet ache, and she gives in, hailing a cart for the rest of her journey. With her head propped against the seat, she watches the city pass by. A half-hour later, the cart stops at the cross street near Glint’s home.

  ***

  “—I really don’t think the Jalla merchants will…”

  Glint’s words falter when he opens the door and sees her outside his home. She’s about to speak when he suddenly reaches out and shoves her back and out of sight. He squeezes through the door, allowing her no glimpse of who is inside, then pulls it firmly shut behind him.

  “Patron’s favor,” he says, swearing to the deity favored by merchants, “this meeting may be saved after all. I need you to get a dress. Fast.”

  “But I—wait. What’s going on?”

  “I’m about to either clinch a council seat or lose everything. But I need a fiancée.”

  She sighs. Of all the sixing things he could have said… “Glint, I don’t have time to pretend. I need to ask you—”

  “Whatever it is, yes. I agree. But I need you to do this first. Please.”

  She lays a hand against her forehead. “I have to be back before dark. Rat Town’s not safe.”

  “You can stay here.”

  “And anyway, I can’t afford a dress. I gave most of the money I brought to a pair of urchins.”

  He pats his pants pockets then slips a hand into his waistcoat. She notices the crimson silk vest beneath and realizes this is probably the fanciest getup she’s seen him in.

  “I left my coin pouch inside and can’t really go
back for it without raising questions—my guests are already here if you hadn’t gathered that. But you are resourceful, aren’t you? Or do your skills stop at pickpocketing?” An amused smile twists his lips.

  Myrrh rolls her eyes. “Of course I can steal a dress.” She taps fingers on her thigh and sighs heavily. “Fine. I’ll help you with your little problem. But I need to get a message to Rat Town. If I’m going to be here overnight, I have engagements that will need to be postponed.”

  “Done.”

  “How soon do you need me in a sixing dress?”

  “It should be the finest gown you can come up with. And I needed you here an hour ago. Do what you can, and Bernard will let you in the back door to the kitchen so you can freshen up. Afterward come back around here and knock.”

  She licks her lips, already running through potential boutiques she can target. Most shops in Lower Fringe buy from honest working people in the Crafter’s District, reselling at a ridiculous markup so their patrons need not dirty their shoes by walking through lower-class areas. Whichever shop she chooses for the theft won’t harm an honest dressmaker. And there’s one nearby where the owner was rather rude when she once stepped inside to look at the garments on offer.

  “I should be back within an hour,” she says. “But why do you need a fiancée for this, Glint?”

  “Well, I suppose you could say there’s a key council member who’s convinced I’ve had relations with his wife. Actual evidence of the fiancée I’ve spoken of in our meetings would go a long way toward quieting his worries.”

  “And did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Have relations with his wife?”

  He hesitates, toe scuffing back and forth across the slate doorstep. “In the days when Hawk and I worked together, I may have formed fleeting romantic attachments with some of the city’s prominent ladies. In order to gain information, you understand.”

  “So yes, you slept with the man’s wife.”

  “Not exactly, but…we don’t really need to get into the details, do we?”